Sunday, 30 December 2012

There is a reason why Calendars Inc (Mayan Brothers & Romans) invented the end of a year.

To mark time, yes. But more importantly, to mark a new beginning. A starting point and the biggest intersection of Hope, Promises and Good Intentions.

Sure the evolved will say, we can start over at any point, and perhaps we can, but there is undeniable magic when an entire species hopes together. Maybe we're gunning for different things- better houses, safety, more cars, food, better love, more love- but at the root of it all, we're only hoping to be happier than last year. So here are a mismatched collection of wishes for you and me, in 2013.

- This year, I hope you find your voice. It's the only way to fight ambivalence. Pick a side, have an opinion. Articulate it via a candlelit march, a status update or plot revenge in a badly lit basement. Whatever you do, do it like only you can. Because if all of us spoke in our special languages, but spoke and didn't shrug silently, somehow we would make sense.

- Read.

Find time in daily mayhem to curl up alone with a book, even if its, 'The Exploding case of Jughead's Hamburger.' Turn the pages, or swipe your Kindle screen. But read. It's the cheapest way to be shocked, delighted, take a vacation and live another life. Yes, I will submit that this was a shameless plug to get more readers for this blog

- Get inspired. It's all very well to make funny, critical noises. But this year, I hope you're inspired. Find your inspiration in a book, on the street, in art, in the lack of art and aesthetic, but be inspired enough to proclaim loudly, "I will do xyz in the most extraordinary way possible."

- Make many, many new year resolutions. The more optimistic and unbelievable, the better. The act of defining what you want in life, of identifying the missing pieces and gaping goals is important. Maybe you will transform your life, maybe you will get back to old habits in February, but it's worth finding out which it will be, year after year.

- Be loyal. If there is one thing the world could use more of, is undying, unflinching, outrageous loyalty. Be loyal to a person, to your idea of what your life should be, to your pet, but be loyal --because what other way is there to love ?

And beyond all else-

I hope we're grand this year. Worthy of a stage, with worthwhile things to do and say. Maybe 2013 will be the year we write that symphony, or find a cure for cancer, or make men and women see each other as equals. Maybe we will fight the good fight, Nicotine sales will drop, kindness to strangers and more importantly those we live with will become our masterpiece in progress. And maybe we will be exhausted from doing these things, failing, wallowing for a bit after failing and getting right back up.

May the end of 2013 will see us exhausted and grinning. Exhausted after an honest years work, because we were too busy being grand to ever get bored.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

It was another Tuesday.
Most life changing events somehow sneak up on a Tuesday. There is something exceptionally ordinary about this day, something that begs a little livening up.

She squatted on the floor, stringing the fairy lights together, set in her view-- if you can untangle the jumble of last years fairy lights, most Adult World problems were a breeze.

There was a certain rhythm to the whole thing.

Take the tangled knot, through the slightest space you find.
Push through as hard as you can.
In case of another knot, repeat the process.
Either the jumbled mess will fall into place, or you just cut the cord.

Pretty much, like the rest of life.

She kept an eye out for her phone, her flatmate would be calling anytime now to confirm coffee.
It had been a rough semester. Classes had gone on as classes always do, but somewhere in the midst of it all, she'd felt herself slipping, losing step with that daily march which keeps us under the happy illusion, that within routine, we are in control.

You could ascribe this to teenage angst, or to living in a new country.
Or you could believe like her, that a tectonic shift was coming, without knowing when or where.
All around her, people were doing something. Most of her peers seemed to have their lives and CVs together.

An In-case of emergency backup was prepared in the same way.
Figure out what you need, store it.
Make sure you're always alert.
Make sure you've covered all your bases.
It seemed that they were attacking life, like an evacuation situation. The fittest can and will survive, and the dreamers will be lost under rubble.

While her friends got their classes, references and Next Steps in order, she doodled outside the margins of her notebook. She wasn't without, of course. She had a jumbled set of passions combined with a desperate need to follow a different one, depending on the day of the week. And the voices in her head.

"See you at 5. Don't be late. Wear a scarf, it's chilly outside."

Functional, is how the text read. Functional, is how people should be. All that feelings do, is add confusion and make you hopeful.

That's the thing about Hope- it is insidious and creepy.
Like a houseguest you didn't want; who always shows up at the worst time. There you were, reading your book, curled up on the futon and the doorbell rings. You don't want to get up, but you have to.
And there's Mr. Hope. Wearing plaid trousers and that grin.

You say, make yourself at home, and return to your book.
You try to curl up and recreate that perfect nook you had found. But everything is all wrong. An ordinary sentence about Mer-People and their adventures is now layered.
Suddenly, you're rooting for the Mer-People to defeat the evil Sea Warrior. Suddenly, you're ready to believe that one day we will find a cure for Diabetes.
Once Hope moves in, it's really difficult to get him out. And sometimes Hope will get you high, that's when you become delusional and look for answers in a scratched Bob Marley CD.

She stood up, put her scarf on, as instructed. The Travel card nestled in her coat pocket, and her hand bag contained the rest of her world.

They met for coffee at their usual place. The walls had been painted green and there was a forced cheeriness and some kind of script in the way the sugar sachets were arranged on a plate.Hello, young person looking for meaning. Sit here for a milky cup of coffee. Drown your conversation with some apple pie. You will look like part of a movie, if you do it right.

He began with an animated update on where his life was. How much it had changed in the last 24 hours, the enormous perspective he swore he know had, and how solutions were almost in sight.

She began with a sigh. A jumble of words and sentences which sounded inarticulate to her own well-read ears.

* I don't make sense. You won't understand me **Maybe if you spoke slower, I would *

*Maybe if you exercised every morning, you'd be able to concentrate better *

*Maybe you're a grouchy pig? *

As always, she flung her sugar satchet at him. He ducked, effortlessly.
They could have been sitting there for hours. You couldn't tell if you just looked her way. Of course, the number of coffee cups on the tiny table were a giveaway. If you were a fan of logic and math, that is.

She decided to walk back alone, by the bridge. It was such a poetic setting, that it had to have meaning, just waiting to be decoded.
Her favourite part was how their conversations over coffee, read like blog posts. Funny, hilarious, insightful blog posts. He knew who she was, on most days. On the others, he was excited to find out who she wanted to become. She knew his advice wasn't as functional as his texts. That a lot of lofty ideals were mixed in. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

A friendship can be broken all the way down into just conversations.
There are the definitive ones, which outline who you're going to be with each other. The really important ones though, are the ones you won't remember. You could have been quoting Groucho or laughing like an idiot over a sexual pun, but there is warmth in the air. Warmth you created. This is the warmth which stops you from keeling over on rough days, much later.

The gravel on the bridge was getting stuck in the heel of her boots. She ran her shoe softly over it.
Wondering if these errant stones were witness on that Tuesday, last summer. He had been running recklessly on the bridge. There was something poetic in destruction always.

But the thing she missed acutely, sharply and everyday, was the touch of his hand on hers. So she picked up her pace and hurried back to her apartment -- to find and attack the jumble of fairy lights. She needed to stop going to that coffee house, every Tuesday. One of these days she would.

But for now, she untangled the mess of cords, one knot at a time, literally willing the light at the end of the tunnel.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Dear Sam the XVth(It was your royal sounding email id, which made me fall for you !)

I write this letter to you on paper using a pen, because honestly the server has been down for two hours now! This has forced me to evaluate our relationship. (Mine and yours, not that horrid, unilateral, dependent, abusive relationship I share with the Internet)

We met three years ago, didn't we? On that beautiful day, my iPhone app told me it was sunny outside with just a bit of cloud (23 Degrees Celsius).

You looked at me, I looked away- exactly how most love stories and stalking starts.

We were talking soon after. We both pretended to be the coolest versions of ourselves. You didn't really believe that I knew a Harley from a Bentley, did you? And I never presumed you would be as great a listener, as you were those first couple of days.

That's the beauty of young love- you explore each other like an antique book store on a lazy Sunday, time and intention both being on your side. Of course, whether you get a great book in the bargain is entirely dependent on luck.

We texted a lot, in those days. Thankfully, this tweeting mania didn't exist back when you and I were courting ! A good old emoticon expressed as much, if not more, than a hash tag "#" could. I don't know how kids these days keep the romance alive. Preceding every message with #hotforyou or #mommawantsyoubad would have killed that rush.

You know, the rush I'm speaking of? When you're sitting on a table with your friends and the corner of your eye is on your phone.

Then.

The table vibrates. And you jump, like a prisoner awaiting a conjugal visit.

Of course, it could just be your friends phone, or the other friend shaking the table with her impatient, possibly frustrated foot. The sheer rush when I would see your name light up my phone screen. I would read the text, grin like a monkey and put my phone away. I wouldn't want you to know I was available and waiting for your text, that's just not how ladies play, is it?

We moved onto emails eventually. Spamming each others work accounts. My boss thought I refreshed Outlook because I was young, crazy and raring to go. He didn't guess where I wanted to go.

A little witty remark . Private jokes. Your favorite font was Tahoma and mine was Calibri. You changed your font to match mine. It was a beautiful world we created, just you, me and an internet provider of 500mbps.

We didn't meet as often Sam. We couldn't. I was exhausted from that long day of texting, emailing and whats-apping you. True Romance tires you out.

But every time I missed that beautiful face, I would log onto Facebook and scroll through your 487 (erstwhile 489) pictures.

You do clean up well. And thank god, you got over that goatee phase !

I had to put up a witty status once in a while. You needed to know how fun I was, and really how else would you have found out?

I remember the day you shared a youtube link on my wall., I refreshed the page a million times. I knew you were serious about me. It takes commitment to openly communicate on my wall, out there where the world can see us.

We hit a rough patch in the middle. As most great lovers do.

I saw a picture of you and her. Someone had tagged you. Literature had taught me, that a picture is worth a thousand words.

I dealt with the problem, the only way I could- by 'liking' the picture. The next day, my friends and I went out to a party. They knew what would cheer me up- a well-lit Ladies room, where we all pouted with our best face forward. You would have seen the album that very night, it was called "We go out and look fabulous every night vol47".

I knew I burnt a hole in your heart that night, baby. It was tough love.

I'm glad we survived that phase. It made us stronger, and brought us closer together.

We have been dating five years since. We're together, mature and solid. Your love is evident in the little things you do for me everyday.

Every time you're away, you always 'check-in' so I know you reached safely.I let you know what you mean to me, by making sure I Instagram a picture of you, before I put it up. Sepia toned just how you like it.

It's insulting when people talk of great loves and forget the perils us, young, modern couples go through.

Monday, 10 December 2012

Researcher’s side note : Most of this information is drawn together by absolutely zero personal experience. However, I hang out at adult places a lot. These are arbid bullet points, most of them fictional which is why they make so much sense.

1. Marriage is the most hopeful decision you will ever make.

Think about it. At 26/27/32 ... you assume, that this person will somehow be able to grow, expand and walk with you, as you grow, expand and mould into something you can’t even define just yet. Most math equations factor more probability than this decision.

Have you travelled the world?

Met people younger, older, stronger, better?

And the clincher, do you even know yourself, yet? Your ice cream tastes are in a constant flux of evolution, what makes you think your choice in people won't be?

2. A marriage will not be sustained without lies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still collecting signatures for my 100% Honesty 100% of the Time campaign (we need a new campaign title!)

But, all the fabulous married people out there will confirm, that it’s really the little lies that keep their marriage growing, ticking and not imploding. A Frankestinian version of the ‘what they don’t know, won’t kill them’ keeps most chugging along.

3. You’re not really married until 6 months into it. Maybe point 3 comes from the joy of belonging to the Great Indian Wedding background- however the expanse of being married and all that it entails, only really dawns on you, once the ladoos, dinners, photo-ops and gushing noises stop.

For most couples the period between the engagement, wedding and six months hence, is only really driven by inertia. You’re too exhausted from eating all that food and smiling to even realize, grasp and move with what you created. Happiness is an easy monster to feed on, and you do. Till one day, real life kicks in and that’s when you know what being married is like.

I sound angry, because I only recently realized that its not all- sit on a chair, look fabulous and collect presents for the rest of time !

4. Marriage is frumpy at the edges, and that’s the most picture perfect angle. That time, when you’re sick and gross and even your kindest friends will only call you on the phone ? Its great then, to have someone take care of you. Have soup with you. Accept you, even when you’re a red-nosed, heat radiating, flu-ridden zombie from hell.

5. Most marriages are tested when you play family. It’s a fair playing field when it’s two fools who come together and promise each other eternity and beyond. What makes it an interesting movie to watch , is when you throw other people into the mix.

Love me, love my family. Absorb all the idiosyncrasies we have as a group, and run with it.

Is it easy? Hahaha. (Sorry, too much audience laughter for a more evolved response)

Is it fun? Not all the time, everyday. But it has it's moments.

Is it important ? In measured degrees, yes extremely. Oddly, it keeps us from turning into narcissist, self-project driven individuals who equally deserve to be abandoned when their children grow old.

6. Marriage is just that thing you do. That may not have been my most nuanced sentence yet, but I couldn’t have put it differently. It’s like choosing to play tennis.

It works for some.

Some make it work for them.

It’s never an option for some.

But, it’s only just that- a thing you do.Which makes it as good, bad, permanent, shackling, empowering as you want it to be.

Friday, 16 November 2012

Lately, this is how most people woke anyway, with that one constant feature on their bed. Her half- open eyes, barely registered who it was that texted/tweeted/sent an email. It wasn’t Bono, though.

Her friends assumed, the moniker had been lovingly bestowed, given her known love for U2 songs. But they knew it was really because he was bald and cared about the environment enough to recycle time and again. Heaving herself out of bed, she launched, into the shower and nostalgia.

Most people sang in the shower. She remembered. With every scrub of the loofah, every droplet of water, she remembered, more than she forgot. Tormented by an acute memory, almost HD quality flashbacks, she remembered. In these 27 years, she had learnt to use it to her advantage. Playing her favourite memories over and over again- a scratched vinyl cd, with more pictures than sound.

He’d never been as charming, as hopelessly reserved. She fed on that. Around her, with time, he became animated, child-like. She felt life force tug her, when around him. She was the reservoir and around her, he became everything he had ever hoped to be. Every forgotten dream was realised and he was the lead. Entry, stage right, everyday.

That’s really the thing about memories. They remind you of what was, what happened when you were too busy feeling and other such sentimental hobbies. Most days, you weren’t processing an event real time, you weren’t the passive observer eating potato crisps watching a scene. You were part of it, alive and altering it with every breath. Altering possibilities and killing them. Never knowing if your being itself was detrimental to your own dreams.

She’d found Bono at a coffee shop. Really, where else did people find people, before Baristas with badly made coffees had turned up? A townhall meeting didn’t sound very conducive to romance, fate, coincidence and serendipity.
He had a big mug of black coffee, no sugar, in front of him. Empowered by her knowledge that you can tell a person from their choice of caffeinated beverage- she assumed Bono was ambitious, a go getter without any frills. She could have been right, she could have been wrong. That’s the thing about first impressions. Once we make ours, they can be so heady, that they often become the only truth.

Armed with her book, a new Orange prize winner, she was acutely aware of how she must look to others. Empowered and indifferent. She ordered her usual Café Mocha, shielding her drink from prying eyes. It wouldn’t do, if people knew that much like her drink, she could be wholesome and craving comfort. Seated opposite Bono, she waited for him to approach her, or at least glance where men usually stole glances.

He continued punching furiously into his Blackberry, indifferent. She was aware, she wasn’t the most attractive waif-like Model, but her arsenal had not failed her so far. And, like many strong women before her, she fell for his indifference. His refusal to acknowledge her existence made her resolute in her need for him to look.

It was fall that evening, and she curled up around him. The smell of musk clung to sheets and his brown, slightly mottled skin, heaved up and down as he slept. Snoring softly. She wrapped her hand around Bono’s fingers and let her being envelop in a safety previously unknown. A safety stemming from her very youth. He needed her at his age, she excited him.

“What do you love best about me?”

“Your eyes”, he mumbled, without really looking up.

“Really? These small things”

“Hmm”

She sat on the ledge of the bed, smoking her cigarette. It was a ritual of sorts. She smoked, while he slept. It was Saturday, she dismissively thought. Wrapped in contentment, of not feeling the need to go out. To find some friends to take pictures with, pictures which would inevitably make their way to Facebook and the same people could gush about how perfect your life and your nail colour really was. This was her safe little world. Him and her, in the hotel room. They had to keep the place extremely neat. He couldn’t be intimate if there was a mess in the room, a quirk she adored. And worried for. Why must everything find its little hiding place?

This was her little world. This one room. In times to come, a veritable Panic Room.

She brushed the fly-away from her eyes and got ready to shampoo. Her mum had taught her this-- when you feel like crying, run to the bathroom and shampoo your hair. It’s not easy to cry when mechanically massaging your scalp with the latest promise of high gloss and shine. It’s not that difficult either Mum, she mused.

It could have been spring, when she found out. Six months later.
They sat at a discreet coffee shop and he mumbled, “I’m married”.
She looked around for an audience. Anyone, who could let out a dramatic, heartbroken gasp on her behalf.

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“I married her when I was very young”

“I didn’t know I would meet you, and well, here we are.”

You couldn’t fault his precise narration of events. She knew then, she had to love him. Why else, did she stayed glued to her seat? Just listening, and breathing. The signs had been evident months ago. She was a child however, and this was a monster in the room, it didn’t really exist unless you called on it.

Her friends were there waiting for her, doctored looks of anger and disapproval. She really had ignored them, but how could they possibly understand? They, of linear relationships. Could they know, the joy, thrill, madness and sheer passion of having to share a man? A man you loved so deeply, the same love you feared actively. Most of their dull, Stepford days were spent trying to ‘get the romance back’. Could they ever brush their fingers on an emotion, so raw, real and throbbing that it reminded them of a scaled reptile?
A pet Iguana. Together loved and abhorred.
She had renounced the foolishness of youth, the complexities of the adult world were hers to enjoy and cherish.

Her narrative to them, started with how he looked, to allow them to visualise. Bono was lean. Around forty, with a barely receding hair line. Some people found him dull. Obsessed with his work. He knew fascinating facts though, about the Rolling Stones, jewels from Persia and the human anatomy. She’d anchored her days around him, only coming fully alive in his presence. All the time, otherwise, was spent waiting for when they would meet. It was no so much a tortured love, as it was real. Assured, contained in its belief, that none other could match up to its intensity and its horror.

'Being with him made her feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his.' She quoted, The God of Small Things. Having taken aid from all quarters, including literature, she whispered softly -

“Oh, but he’s sort of, married.”

It was only when her friends had inquired about kids, that she remembered to ask. She wondered what had become of her, how were logical details of functioning escaping her notice ?

“I have a four year old daughter. She is everything to me.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. Not only did she have to compete with the other woman , she had a four year old to contest with. She’d only heard about the hold daughters had on their fathers. Hers had always found her too lacking, to be overcome with adulation. There could really be one way around it. She decided to love the little girl along with him.

The conditioner bottle was running, dangerously low. They said how low you let your essential supplies run, was how reckless you were. By that logic, she was a veritable tight rope flame walker. Scraping some left over conditioner goop, she ran her fingers through her wet strands. Baz Luhrmann , had emphasized the importance of sunscreen, but it was conditioner that was truly the underdog.

The constant negotiations and strategizing with her friends had worn her thin. Her 27 year old frame, was almost always slumped. A walking demonstration of sub-conscious posturing. They spoke to her from a place of love, but she heard the hushed whispers. The armchair psychologists had come out, fully armed.

“It could be her father complex. She’s always looked for approval”
“She did struggle with her body for a while. Maybe an older man is a validation.”

Yes, he was a validation. No, he was not a replacement for her dad. She liked, that he had more money and made her feel like a little girl, taken care of. She returned the favour in the bedroom.

She mothered him, loved him, teased him and flirted with him. Filling every need in his marriage that she could imagine. While quietly at night, stalking his wife on Facebook. She wanted to reach into the screen and meet this short, dark woman. She wanted to pity her, mock her, but was always left in a pile of inexhaustible jealousy.

If life were a rally, she’d be picked over her. She was a younger model, with a better engine and much higher horsepower. All the Thumbnail Lady had, was a pile of snapshots and time on her side. You traded cars in for better models all the time. No one ever wrote yarns on how the older car felt. All they spoke of, was the beauty of the new one.
In real life, Vintage trumps Mileage.

Their love it seemed had run its course, and was now sitting on the sidelines, tired and out of breath. Her love had slowly creeped into “smothering” zone, while her caresses to him were unspoken demands. He distanced himself effortlessly, like only men could. Shrugging her off, like an old coat.

She’d only seen a plate being smashed against a wall in a movie. In slow motion. This was a graphic swift movement, marked only by the shattering of ceramic against the weathered wall. Sound traveled faster than light. And that was that. She felt out of place. A clawing inside her was reminiscent of Glenn Close. The irony was too subtle for the situation.
“I think we should just be friends. I can’t be who you want me to be.”

She ran the towel gently through her hair. If you were rough, you could damage your wet strands. Her pink, wrinkled finger tips made a grating sound when rubbed against each other.

She walked out and instinctively went to check her phone.
It ended as all things, ever really end. With an un-returned phone call.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

If you’re from/around Delhi and see a
manically grinning, 20 something girl, that’d be me.

Or my doppelganger.

One can never be sure.

Delhi in November or exactly ten
days before Diwali, is magical. I know, most people say that about New York in
the Fall, or London in that one perfect week of August.
Delhi however, tops
that.

New York in the fall is poetic.
There is an earnest desire to hold on to the hot summer days, all the while
knowing that this is just a perfect, magical evening full of conversation and
Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy may never meet again.

London, in August is optimistic; It’s
hard to be depressed when you’re having a night cap and the sun pretty much refuses
to set !

Delhi, before Diwali is the
opposite of these epithets. It’s marked by smog and fairly chilly nights. Where
New York autumn has yearning and London has optimism, Delhi has a racing heartbeat, and a body pumping way too much adrenalin.
Everyone knows that soon, winter will be upon
us. There is no central heating to be had, and the fog will claim lives (both
of men and helpless canine). Before the plummeting temperature becomes a
conversation starter, we have Diwali and the week leading up to it.

This time is almost an assault to the
senses. For all their lit up splendour, the evenings have a quiet silence. As
if a million people, at the same time, for now, are at peace and you can touch
it. If you stand really still, you can hear the rustle of kurtas before you hear actual footsteps. The smell of burnt wicks, collectively chorus in the air.
And it is impossible not to taste early winter on your skin and
fingertips

There is an other worldly, conspiracy in
the air- you can’t move your car out of your neighbourhood, without being
blinded by the symphony of a thousand, blinking lights. All festooned
haphazardly around one house, mind you.
There is grace in the loud laughter, at no other time will people lose money with as
much abandon. But my favourite thing about this time of the year, by
far, is the people.

Everyone is out- Out of their homes, out of the worries boxing
them in, out on the streets- the self-sufficient world of apartment floors and
people hunched over their laptops in bad lighting, is replaced with people on
the streets and in each other’s homes. People usually straitjacketed into corporate
wear, come alive in brighter clothes and festive threads. Most neurosis are also checked at the door.

If you think about it hard
enough, and remember that time, back in the day.

Delhi, on Diwali is like a teenager
falling in love. Heady, hopeful, much too excited and desperate to see the feeling right to its very end.

Monday, 29 October 2012

(Disclaimer: I'm neither homosexual, nor a man. I just know some wonderful men who are. I am also easily angered, especially on any choices being removed from the mix, hence assuming a voice on behalf.

One must always be allowed to choose, how else can we settle the eternal debate

Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey
or
Cookie Dough ?

Also: Have blog, Will type)

Dear KJo,Alright, you're one of us and proud of it. That gives you a grand total of two points. It's mostly downhill from here.It started with the Kantaben joke in Kal ho na ho. While fairly funny, they bordered on stereotypical. Then there was, Dostana, where the only concession was the fact that you made a large storyline around the issue, in main stream cinema.

As adorable as the song was (ref: maa da ladla), seeing you repeat the act in Student of The Year, compels me to write this letter.At a time when some closed minds are willing to consider being open, must you project us in a horribly regressive, stereotypical, effeminate and a powder blue suit wearing, light ? (if you did your research well, you'd know that most gay men have evolved sartorial choices, none of which include a head to toe, powder blue suit !)Yes, most gay men are fabulously groomed and no one appreciates this better than a straight woman. I would rather be gay and partial to pastels than be straight and feel it my jat duty to endorse Ed Hardy. Of course, every Ed hardy wearing muskkle boy, is also sporting shiny, snake skin dress shoes. With low waist, stone washed jeans and a watch with a chain strap so loose, its almost like a man bracelet.Now were you to represent every straight man like this, wouldn't most of them be horrified and frankly no one come watch your films? Much like it it takes all sorts of smart/ forward thinking/ douchebags to make the straight crowd, it takes all sorts to make the gay crowd as well.Of course, no one ever assumed that you would make a sensitive film, like My Brother Nikhil. The catch is that gazillions will watch your film, especially a film as candy floss as Student of the Year. Most of this audience is the Indian counterpart of a Hannah Montana loving generation (tweens)It would seem a tad idiotic then, to feed their minds with such archaic views of what gay men are like. Especially at a time when minds are mostly closed and debates still fresh !You must then, repeat after me1. In my next film , I will not use a sexual orientation as comic relief. I shouldn't need to, I can just use Tushar Kapoor- that will be the audience cue to laugh.2. I will also, evolve above symbolic gestures like a drooping hand and a man showing excitement by chewing his tie. No one ever does that, except probably Bobby Deol , whenever someone remembers his name from the cast of Dostana.3. I will not use gay men as an excuse to flash John Abraham's rear. Ok, scratch that. Most gay men and straight women did not mind that. Moving on.4. I will do my research. And no matter how big the chandelier or the grand staircase on my set , I will not let it compensate for lack of sensitivity.

Thursday, 18 October 2012

I've heard my girlfriends whine about their relationships. A lot. And, I've come to a genius conclusion – the most complicated relationships, most girls I know have, is actually with Food.

Let me state upfront, I know beautiful, healthy women with no eating disorders.

(Key to conversation below:

SYRVC=Sinfully yummy, Red, Velvet CupcakeHF=Helpless Female )

SYRVC- Hey, foxy lady. How you doin' ?HF- Oh, don't even think about it mister !. I’m not your type. I'm going to start eating healthy. In fact, day after tomorrow I WILL go on that run. If the alarm goes off on time, that is. Or maybe, if work gets cancelled.That’s right, I would definitely exercise much more, if only work started later. Say, at noon, every day. I would be a gym bunny. One of those girls who exercise in fabulous gym gear.Anyway, sorry, I’m not interestedSYRVC- And yet, of all the café’s in all the world, you had to walk into mine?

HF- Look, I get it. You’re red velvet and you have all the ladies falling and swooning over you. Especially, those emotional ones, at that time of the month. But, you’re not my type. You used to be, but I have moved on. I’m looking for a life long commitment to health. Not a cop out.

SYRVC- Ah, I see. So, this life long relationship starts after you stop staring at me? The chemistry between us could break this glass, you know?Let me come sit next to you. I’m sure I can help you forget your worries.Or, maybe you’re just not the kind of girl who can handle me. Oh, well.

HF- *tee hee* You've clearly practiced your charm, bad boy.Ok. I guess, I can hang out. Maybe just today. It doesn't mean anything. I won't be back tomorrow, of course.I have plans

*To the server- I’ll have four red velvet cupcakes, oh and a cup of Green Tea please ! Gotta, work on the metabolism too !*

Like their dating lives, most women and their cupcake (insert, preferred dessert of choice) relationship is a mixed bag of
Torment, Eventual Submission ,Temporary Euphoria , Delayed Guilt and a coping mechanism of nothing but Total and Aggressive Rebound.

Of course, one could always have a healthy, balanced approach to food and dessert.

But what of love and cupcakes, if you can’t fall headlong, truly, deeply madly into them?
If only, to come out a little bit wounded and sick in the stomach, in the end?

I’d word play with euphemisms more, but the cake crumbs are making it hard to type straigghtks.

Thursday, 11 October 2012

That’s my cue for when it’s over. Say to myself, “ the coffee’s gone cold.” Yes, it’s odd. And No, you may not borrow it.
Losing friends (fluid definition for anyone in your life you care about), is inevitable and unpredictable. You can lose them multiple times in one lifetime, for most though, once will suffice.

Most of it happens when the light turns yellow. The twilight zone, where you’re not sure if you should Go or Stop. You decide to Go, and well, decisions only ever made sense in retrospect.

There were times when they got lost in loud laughter, amidst clinking coffee mugs, central air conditioning and people who looked like clones of one another. Back then, when you frequented the Uni coffee shop for the Free Wi-fi and irresistible muffins. Somewhere, you left them behind. You think you had enough pictures together, but most of them were polaroids in your mind. God knows, Instagram is more permanent than memory.

And then there were the token ones you lost over chai. There amidst loud canteen chattering, oblivious to the significance of the losing, bit by bit there’s a tectonic shift. Days from now, your friend will not be the same. You just didn’t know it happened that Tuesday, post CTPB class, over badly made chai and extremely spicy Maggi.

There’s the school friend, the one you could never imagine your life without. The one who featured in the glamorous life you were destined to lead once school ended. The one you lose in between vehement declarations of keeping in touch, and good intentions. Lost friendships and apparently the road to hell, always paved with good intentions.

If you pay close attention and plot it on a graph, it always happens around the time the weather shifts. Nature could very well be in on this. You meet this wonderful person and always exclaim that you wished you’d met before. They seem to get you, like no one else, and you spend the next month almost drugged by the chemistry of your friendship. Then, they move, or start dating or you do, or maybe Tuesday comes around. And once again, in glorious subtlety you lose them. The good intentions kick right in, and there are promises of new ‘scenes’, but like the Starks wisely say, “Winter is coming.”

The most painful and dramatic losses are always those that occur surreptitiously. Everything seems like it always was, you meet them at your favourite place and indulge in the same banter on auto pilot. Till one day, one of you senses it, the difference. Awkwardness has set in, and frankly the magic is lost. You lose them over nothing, maybe for nothing and there’s little to do than shrug your shoulders (classic, First World response to real problems). You won’t let it fade away, of course. You will make the customary, revival ‘scenes’. However, the backdrop has really shifted, you’re on the wrong stage,you need to move and please take your props with you !

You say, you prefer if it was one clean sweep. A definitive act of right and wrong? So you could dust your hands and say, “Right then, I’m done here.” First, you’re not God creating Earth, so you probably won’t get a lot of chances to say that dialogue. Second, you’d already lost them much before the definitive act; you were just too caught up texting, to notice.

Yes, you must grow and prosper nevertheless, carry bits of them in who you are, and always, always wear sunscreen.

But, really, I’d like all of you along for the ride.
In a big yellow bus. You from school, you from college, you who I met through friends, you at the place I used to work- my own gang of wonderful misfits, singing Tiny Dancer together.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

It starts in the idyllic countryside. It always starts in the idyllic countryside- minor detail of Rome, Paris or Barcelona, notwithstanding.
The city is central to the story, always a fourth character.

In fact, if I buy into the socio- industrial complex which is supposed to rule the world, then Woody’s next biopic is set in Greece. No one needs an economic overhaul more than those guys.

But, I digress.

Woody Allen has ruined my love life.

Do I disagree with the version of love he shows? No.

The problem is, I agree and relate to it, altogether too much.
(I’ll draw inferences from his last three movies to illustrate my point and general grumpiness)

Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona- There is a little bit of Vicky and a lot of Cristina in the girls I know. The thing is, putting this beautiful conflict of Calculated Compromise vs. Hopeless Search for Perfection or being Sensible vs Being You on celluloid, is not making our decisions any easier.

Sure, so many of us will speak like characters from the movie for some time to come. Sure, its heart wrenchingly beautiful to agree with, “ Maria Elena used to say that only unfulfilled love can be romantic. " However, the problem and the debates remain unresolved

There’s Karan Johar, who simplified love for us- stop being a tomboy and maybe you get a second chance., Woody could have done that. But, no siree. He went and romanticised a painful struggle. My painful struggle, and if you’ve read so far, then clearly yours too.

I call it Allen’s romanticised version, because unlike my hero Cristina, none of us continue searching indefinitely. We throw in the towel and do our best, much like our hard working predecessors did. After all, who knows if Cristina grows up to be a frustrated cat-lady who reads on a rocking chair?Midnight, In Paris- An epic romance, where once again Allen highlights dissatisfaction beautifully. In delicately beaded flapper dresses, the women highlight what Owen Wilson learns only too late- you’re never going to be satisfied.
Guess what, Woods? I knew that.
We all know that.
I don’t need to see postcard perfect cinematography to tell me that. I don’t want to be told that there is nothing ahead but permanent dissatisfaction and rueful chin rubbing of what could have been, what should have been.

To Rome, With Love- I entered the cinema hall, begging and hoping for it to be an eternal love affair between a woman and good ol’ Mozarella . It turned out to be, a tumbling, fumbling montage of lies, decadent coincidences, serendipitous misfortunes and delightful cynicism. To Rome with Love, will teach you, that life is real, and frumpy around the edges and mostly you should be careful what you wish for.

Every time I enter the theatre, I’m hoping that this time, Mr Allen will have solved my problem. That an hour post the interval, a character WILL stand up and say, “ You see, Kakul, this is why you have to do what you’re planning to do.” It does not help, that the only thing that happens is a beautiful depiction of every conflict, all of us have ever faced.

To make matters worse, in reality these conflicts are messy and always prone to bad judgement calls. There is no ironical lament, well-padded with excellent puns, soft lighting or Norah Jones-esque soundtrack.

So, this is my ultimatum, Dear Mr Allen Sir.

Either solve my problems and give answers
OR
Give me a job writing for you. At least then I’m the one messing with other people’s heads !

Friday, 21 September 2012

I heard, it happened to people when they hit their twenties. For me, it started last year.
One or two of them innocuously dropped off the radar. Come 2012 second half and 2013- it is here. It is real, and I know what the mayans were going on about.

I’M LOSING ALL MY FRIENDS TO MARRIAGE !

As a firm believer in sparse use of capslock, I firmly believe that the above sentence (font and capslock not withstanding) does not emphasize my trauma enough!

Once upon a time, I used to look forward to brunches. Just sitting around a table with my girlfriends, breaking bread (biblical reference alert), and talking about everything. Everything namely being, what she wore last night to where we should travel next. How our jobs, lives and career paths need an overhaul to how our haircuts do. I do believe that, those brunches and dinners, accomplished more than most diplomatic meets can, on their agenda. There is little that can replace your girlfriends glee, when she is told about your latest, “you did whaatttt. I cannot believe it !” . It was banter designed by a really bad author, you spoke together in giggles and overlapping sentences, in written copy your conversation would have an overdose of exclamation marks. Everything was important, everything was urgent and everything need to be analysed. And there it was, this happy, self-contained world filled with comfort, laughter, wickedness and sage, sage advice.

Until of course, the day she sits across you and holds your hand. You promptly shrug it off and wonder if she is on some medication.

“Guess what?!”

“Tell me ! No wait, let me guess. You moved out/quit your job/broke up.”
“Oh, you’re such a drama queen. I’m getting married !!! It’s fixed. My roka is next month”
(for the uninitiated and any non- Indian readers of this blog. In which case, I love you don’t ever stop visiting! A roka is where the couple are ‘booked’ for each other. Much like a plot of land, we like that, here’s the down payment. Now we own it. Muahahahahah, oh and mazeltov)

Don’t get me wrong, you’re happy for your friend and wish her a lifetime of love.
But there’s this split second when you know ,things will never, ever be the same.

And they aren’t, not until the wedding for sure. All talks on the table now revolve around clothes, what his parents said, , how so and so will try and outdo her at the wedding, venues and make up. Even the most sensible, well read girl has a bridezilla in her . You’re no longer breaking bread with your friend; you’re stuffing your face with carb comfort (thin line, big difference).

There’s always that moment, the one moment where you want to ask them to run away with you. Back to how things were and how comfortable and safe everyone felt. Back to when you were plotting on how many minutes to wait before you replied to his message and not how many kids you want with him. Like, all of life’s changes. There is no going back.

Your friend has effectively become a new “we”. And you need to catch up; there is no time to mourn. The new “we” will have diet plans and fittings. You will have vague plans for trips to Ibiza, now maybe by your lonesome. What used to be Saturday nights with you, will now be with her “we” and few other infected “we’s” around town. On the upside, this will happen to boys as well. Suddenly they miss their 'bro', the one they're used to hanging out, drinking beer, and scratching balls with.

At this time, two things happen-

a) you get caught in the madness and decide to propose to your two week boyfriend (monumentally bad move!)
b) you find other single, cougars and sign up for new friends around town.
Don’t do either.

You and I know, your friend needs you now more than ever. Be her gotapatti touting, fake smiling reality check, the one who promises to grind the guy into Matrix like smithereens if he ever hurt her.
Afterall, that’s what friends are for.

Monday, 10 September 2012

The anatomy of missing starts with one odd piece, here and there. You can go on, slightly wonky, for a long time without realising it.
Until someone stops and asks you.

"Hey, you Scissorhands- you got a pair of XL shears?"

And you go all wide-eyed, goofy grin-

"You bet I do mate (or whatever lame form of greeting you use)".

Until you realize, you don't.
Your shears fell away, somewhere along the twisted, winding road.
Right.
Nothing is more acute than needing them, then. At that moment when someone reminds you of them. Reference to context.

Of course, there is 'even more acute', when you notice another person's shiny new shears. You used to have them. These shears. Together you would snip at life. Well, now you don't.

There are times when you can go on, for a long time, with large gaping chunks in you. Cashmere knits often cover those well. You look at people who are whole- and how simplistic do they look? Their lives are missing that certain sexy Sylvia Plath dimension, that yours took. You would work that, if only you could stop picking at your own gaping chunks, and muttering softly.
Always there is muttering softly.

Then, there is the kind of missing which occurs at night. It's needless, pointless and often just a ghost whisper. However, like the monsters under our beds and in our heads- nothing can seem more real, scary or urgent. Every attempt to fight it, is another moment you succumb to it. Alprax wasn't a coincidence, it was probably invented by some gentlemen with a past best forgotten.

Maybe when you really miss something.
Your grand mom.
An old love.
A pet
It's a collective scream. Parts of you, calling out.

Guys, we left that guy behind. He was one of us. Come on! Let's go back for him.

And every time we don't turn around for that part of us, that XL shear, we're betraying ourselves. Or maybe we're scattering bit of ourselves around the world. Broken bits which never come back. Those are the bits of us which broke free, they found something to love, live for and represent. They perished with it.

And maybe, you're just a person with holes, desperate to find something to live for. To represent and perish with.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

It’s not all that easy, to sit on four legs and watch all of you make a spectacular mess of most things.
Other than, air conditioning. You got that right, that I’m very thankful for.

So, back to what is going on. There seems to be a lot of war.
Now I get that when you are on two legs, testosterone is the only thing which makes you feel real.
I get it. It’s sad you guys don’t have a tail- because sometimes, I feel a tail really does it for me. Really, all this fighting over oil, (water will follow, I hear), it’s a bit pointless. Don’t get me wrong, I know me and my brahs got a bad rep for starting the whole “peeing around our territory”, but we stop at the peeing and friendly brawling. Bombing each other senseless, destroys what you were fighting for.
Sometimes, humans, not so smart.

Then, there is the whole bit on how you treat your ladies.
People, people! That is not cool.
Ladies are meant to be manipulated into holding you and giving you more food, only with adorable, harmless tactics like big, puppy eyes and incessant happy yelping and licking (Trade secret). We dogs have kept more romance alive than you. Of course, we’re speaking to the concerned authorities and soon there will be a PIL filed against attributing male douchebag behaviour, to him being a “dog”. As if, they ever could.
Take Todd Akin, for example. Matty, the wisest German Shephard in our neighbourhood- he was appalled, when he heard Mr Akin's views on what constitutes legitimate rape. News has spread, and some dogs near the Missouri area will be leaving Mr Akin unpleasant smelling presents, outside his door. We call it our illegitimate reaction to his apparently, legitimate views.

The other day I stared at your machine for a really long time. The really shiny one, that you keep cleaning and dusting and spend most of your evenings with.
I’m all for anthropological research. So, I stared and stared and then I got distracted by a potato which fell off the table. Maybe, I missed a beat, but what is in that thing that’s more fun than chasing your own tail? Or. Playing with me?
I’m more emotive company, plus no one ever got bad eyesight by playing with their dog for too long. I also read off a piece of newspaper (which I tore, you know for kicks), that canine company releases stress.
Win-win.

Basically, I thought I’d write to you guys. Help you fix things. Keep it real. Keep it street.
Advice can come from strange quarters, but it can still be meaningful (that’s what the Marla, the Spitz on our street said to the Great Dane. She handles most of his investments now). I hope you guys pull it together.

Meanwhile, one final word of caution to Ms Hilton and her friends- Do not stuff any of us into your purses. A chihuaha in an oversized bag will not make you cute- Surgery is a more reliable option.

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

I stayed up all night, reading this book and at some point in the twilight hour, I fell in love.

To paraphrase, Markus Zusak (author) slightly.

The only thing worse than a book you hate: Is a book you fall in love with.

The Book Thief, has been around for a long time now. For too long and too many like me, could be oblivious to it.

Set in Nazi Germany, The Book Thief, recounts the story of a young girl (Leisel ) and her world. A world at the same time divorced and anchored in the most gruesome acts of the 20th century.

That’s the thing about the Holocaust, or any war horror- you can write about it so, that the reader’s heart is ripped out and is disoriented for days. And why ever not, many would argue. I am all for telling stories, of keeping the memory of the heinous alive. Maybe to remind all of us, never to turn that corner again.

It’s easy and tempting to recount the details of the violence in a violent way. However, it takes a very special author, to do it gently and gracefully; without performing any disservice to the memories of those who endured it.

In Zusak’s world, you meet a motley crew of characters. They live in a microcosm of horror, equally untouched and manipulated by events around them. The strength of the story are the smaller stories, how Tommy's ear infection caused Rudy to win the medals. Why didn't Rudy want all of them? Suddenly, these seem like urgent questions in Molching, a town so close to the epicenter of Nazi Germany. There’s Papa, Max (the Jew who wants to beat Hitler in a boxing match), Rudy, the swearing foster mother, Rosa. There’s Ilsa Hermann, the woman who never got over her son’s death.

And then, there’s Death. A narrative device, used both beautifully and hauntingly.

Death is marked by its melancholic, yet shrug-of-shoulder narration of events.

" For the book thief, everything was going nicely.

For me, the sky was the colour of Jews"

This brings me back to my point, on fiction around the Holocaust-- it’s so easy and sometimes necessary to rip the readers heart out.

This book will walk inside your body.

Saunter, if you may.

Sit inside you, in lotus position, holding your heart in its hands. With every turn of the page, you will feel a squeeze there, a tug here. And all you will fervently whisper is, please don't break my heart. Please don't.

Perhaps, Zusak’s foreplay with words and easy amble around irony, classifies this as “young adult fiction”. However, there are vibrant analogies, crippled characters and a backdrop of one of the worst hate crimes committed. This is important reading for the young and adult alike.

“I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.”

Sunday, 19 August 2012

Most stories really start from the middle. The beginning is a construct, mostly of a pedestal.
Endings were more real. But, too real to be true.
It was in the middle that the story lay, breathed, danced and sulked.

Plucking petals from daisies, was how she thought growing up would be. Staring up at the ceiling came a close, realistic second. Most people were drawn to her irresistibly, some never really understood the fuss. Few recoiled, in sheer terror of the unseen and unexplored. One or two stayed, they really couldn't help themselves. They had gotten to know her.

Spun with her very own fabric of delicious complexities, vulnerabilities and a loud, loud laugh, she truly hated winter. The winds could chill your bones and suck happiness out of you. There really was little merit in all of it, other than a deep appreciation of what summer would bring. And the daisies.

He swore he found her while reading the horoscope section. Of course, the story never made sense, but she always exclaimed loudly when he said it, and you lost logic in her radiant banter. Her favourite things were cheesecake, Heathcliff, rain, repartees and good posture.

Like most things, the everyday ate up the magic. Even the most special of us, could recreate only so much. We always thought, she had an endless reservoir. But, no one was really paying attention.

It began with little inflections. The eyes stopped crinkling with wickedness, just a smidge- here and there. The madness to the banter seemed almost premeditated, and if you really really heard closely-she rarely spoke in riddles anymore. They didn't really notice.
How could they?
They had painted a portrait of what she was like. No one ever approved of wayward brush strokes.

There was the incident with the boat- he attributed it to sea sickness. He was the first to lose her, and the last to catch on. Familiarity doesn't breed as much contempt as it breeds indifference and loss of attention to details.

I could go on and tell you, how it all really ended.
But, I won't.
You'll take away from it.
As all of us do. Take away from endings. Analyse it/ her dry, project wisdom, hidden lessons and hindsight your way to the start.
People are always picking at endings, desperate to find an a-ha moment ! Always, always struggling to find that one lose thread in the fabric which caused the tear. To use it as a shield against the madness, the next time around.

That's why, I can't tell you.
She wanted the madness, she didn't know it any other way.

Thursday, 19 July 2012

I would have written last week, but I was too busy being hurt on account of Deepika. So, I refrained. But the high road and making nice is not where I’m at.

As a result, this is my vicious, open letter to you on the internet.

You suck !!

*Dammitt* I promised myself, I would lead with a logical argument.

The thing is, Meera, every story starts at the beginning. You were once the blubbering girl, in the loo of a wasted diner. You were also chilling on the curb of Heathrow’s smallest exit. You were also, homeless, friendless and clearly without any survival skills. Basically hon, you were dead meat.

Let’s ignore the, ‘what was she thinking’, when D took you in. She clearly believed, that despite her parents being AWOL, most other people were decent and deserved decency back. You set her straight there, didn’t you ?

Other than the odd dusting around the house, which ANY room mate with a sense of responsibility will do, salwar kameez notwithstanding, you didn’t really contribute much. D, on the other hand, publically humiliated a guy who was a jerk to you. You said he was a jerk. She believed you, and demonstrated what standing up to someone looked like.

You continued to purr and hiss at her new boyfriend. A guy, you claimed to hate and despise, and D who you claimed was your sister. Don’t worry, your feelings were nouveau schizophrenic, we get that ! Anyway, said jerk, says THREE nice things to you on a beach, when his REAL girlfriend is wasting Cape Town sunsets indoors. You promptly make big, Bambi, love eyes at him. Wearing your risqué-st playsuit, you decide to dance with abandon to what should really be D’s song !

Main hun hi nahi iss duniya ki ?!? REALLY !

(Aside- This constant eye rolling is getting in the way of furiously pounding the keyboard !)

Like, the real hero of this movie, D decides to leave her toy boy with you. Faith, love, goodness implicit. Of course, when the cat is away, Meera will play.
Please don’t even try to innocent, small town yourself, that the beach dance wasn’t intimate. But, that’s what you did. And when you finally kissed, you did the “oh, no, what just happened, this kiss completely blindsided me.”

I think the Kiss was the real climax of the story.

I waited for you, Meera, to recoil, in horror, disgust, shock and repeat “how could I do this?!”.
Or, fling yourself off the scenic cliff for being the WORST FRIEND EVER.
Seriously, that would be an ok storyline for me too.
You, of course, discussed logistics with Gautam and seeing obvious operational problems like “aaj tum uske room mein sote ho, kal mere room mein aa jaogey”, you decided it was a no go.

Again, the key point was not that Meera and Gautam kissed. Fine, I’m from the 21st century and aware of the “shit happens” code. But, it would be truly lovely if you could man up and TELL YOUR FRIEND. When Gautam tries to do the honest thing, of at least telling the poor girl, you go all, “oh no, stop! Please don’t *whimper whimper*”

The story is long, and I am out of patience to recount your scummy ways. But, here is where I disagree. While the on-going debate on morality and sluts vs good girls is fine for Cocktail.

The real debate should be

Why did the bad scummy friend get away with it, in the end?
OR
Meera- stop cleaning book shelves and clean your moral code!

I expected, elaborate diatribes on the terrible friend Meera was!

So, dear Meera, repeat after me,

No matter how hot, I think my roommate and best friend’s , almost middle aged, semi balding boy toy is. I will not go after him. If I do, I will tell her. I will not be a passive-aggressive person, currently competing for Most Ungrateful Person Ever.